


Heart

by JanharaMeepWatson



Series: One-Shots [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, SPOILERS if you have not yet watched Series 3, Unintentionally, You Have Been Warned, based upon a headcanon of mine, but johnlock happened, contains series 3 spoilers, i johnlock'd, not supposed to be johnlock, originally, taken from The Empty Hearse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 03:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1251646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanharaMeepWatson/pseuds/JanharaMeepWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John is drugged and thrown into a bonfire, Sherlock desperately tries to unravel exactly what happened and why.  When John comes to visit Baker Street, asking questions that Sherlock has no answer for, the detective is suddenly reminded of a night years ago, and how it is connected to John's abduction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Before we begin: I do not own any of these characters nor any of the dialogue. They all belong to BBC Sherlock. I had a bit of an AHA moment while I was re-watching The Empty Hearse and I thought it would be fun to tweak the episode a bit to fit my headcanon. This little one-shot does contain actual dialogue from the episode just to keep the tie-in flowing nicely.
> 
> Enjoy!

_Save souls now. John or James Watson.  
_ _Saint or Sinner. James or John. The more is less._

A millisecond of confusion, then the gut-wrenching sensation as everything became clear.  Time seemed to stand still as the words of importance glowed in Sherlock’s mind.

**_Save_** _souls now. **John** or James **Watson**.  
_ ** _Saint_** _or Sinner. **James** or John.  **The** more is **less**_  

Not enough time.  The only thing on Sherlock’s mind was John and how to get to him on time. He had no idea where he was, or what was happening to him.  It didn’t help that he had John’s fiancée freaking out right next to him, distracting him from his rapid thoughts.  He was terrified that he wouldn’t make it in time until—aha! Transport.

_Getting warmer Mr. Holmes. You have about ten minutes._

Sherlock’s mind was racing as he pushed the motorcycle to its limits. He was focused solely on getting John home safe and sound. He hadn’t died for two years to save John’s life to have him die now just as soon as he got back.

_8 minutes and counting._

He ground his teeth together, cursing whoever it was that was tormenting his sanity.  He went through the map of London in his mind, and changed his route in order to get there faster.  He only had eight minutes left, and he was barely halfway there.

_Better hurry. Things are hotting up here..._

“What does it mean?” Mary shouted from behind him.

“I don’t know!” Sherlock snapped, mostly to get her to shut up.  The last thing he needed was to be distracted as he was trying to solve this puzzle. Time was ticking away, and he couldn’t afford to waste a single second.

_Stay of execution.  You’ve got two more minutes._

Sherlock let out a breath, relieved that he had even a little bit more time.  He could hear people talking and cheering close by, but he paid little attention to it, focusing instead on not crashing the motorcycle and on how to find John. He nearly cursed out loud when he heard Mary’s phone go off again.  She reached over his shoulder and showed him the latest message.

_What a shame Mr. Holmes.  John is quite a Guy._

Time stood still as Sherlock processed the message. He felt as his body was moving through gel as he turned to stare at the people who were cheering. One man was circling a large pile of wood, dousing it with gasoline.  His mouth fell open as the same man then threw a torch at the wood, causing the whole thing to go up in flames.

Sherlock felt like he was going to be sick as everything instantly fell into place. He knew precisely where John was, and after realizing this, he let out a horrified, “Oh my god.”

He had no time to spare.  He got as close as he could and then abandoned the motorcycle and threw his helmet to the side, not even checking to see if Mary had gotten off alright.  He shoved through the crowds, shouting, “Move!” to get them to let him pass.  He heard a little girl screaming as he finally broke through the crowds and sprinted to the bonfire.

“John!!” he screamed, shoving his hands into the fire to shove aside the flaming wood.  The heat burned right through his gloves.  He felt the flames singing the hair on his arms and burning his skin, but he didn’t care.  All he cared about was getting to John.  He could hear John shouting for help, and after pushing aside a large plank, Sherlock saw him, head bloody and half-conscious.  He reached in and grasped John’s arm, dragging him out of the bonfire and to safety. Ignoring Mary’s screams, he rolled John onto his back and knelt over him.

“John?!” He said loudly.  He grasped John’s face to make him look at him. “John!”

Finally, John seemed to come around and his eyes slowly peeled open.  Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and whispered, “John.”

An ambulance was called, and although the paramedics only allowed one person to accompany the victim, Sherlock thoroughly ignored them and shoved into the ambulance right next to Mary. While the paramedics worked on John, Sherlock sat like a statue.  Only his eyes moved as he looked at John, deducing all that he could from the state he was in. Clearly he’d been drugged. Drugged first, then hit across the head to ensure he remained unconscious.  It was difficult to deduce anything further.  He’d have to wait until John was awake enough to talk with him to find out what exactly had happened. 

Once John was in the hospital and stable, Sherlock returned to Baker Street and immediately began to investigate what exactly had happened to his blogger.  He’d texted Mycroft, demanding any CCTV footage, but Mycroft had disappointed him by saying that someone had blacked out the cameras surrounding 221B during the time that John was taken.  He’d thrown his phone across the room in anger, and set to pacing in front of the couch.

The next day, John was discharged from the hospital, and Sherlock was stuck in Baker Street, listening to his parents drone on about something unimportant.  He sat in his armchair, his eyes closed as he relived the events of that night, trying to piece together what exactly had happened, and why. He could hear his mother complaining, something about glasses and a chain, but he hardly registered anything else. 

He snapped his eyes open and jumped up. He stepped on the coffee table and stood on the couch between his parents, his eyes dancing over all the documents he had pinned onto the wall.  He ignored the disapproving glance his mother gave him as he walked all over the furniture.  As he was looking at the paperwork, he heard familiar footsteps come up the 17 steps to his flat. He turned just as the door opened, and was secretly pleased to see his blogger there.

“John!” He said.

“Oh, sorry, I can come back later-“ John began, looking at the older couple sitting on the couch, thinking they were clients.

“No, ah, they were just leaving.” Sherlock hopped off of the couch, and grabbed his parents by their arms and hauled them upright.

“Oh, were we?” Mrs. Holmes asked.

“Yeah,” Sherlock nodded, and shooed them towards the door as John stepped into the flat. 

They kept talking to him, after which he responded with, “Yes, just go, go!”  He was about to slam the door shut when his mother’s foot stopped him. He looked down, and frowned. He rolled his eyes and glanced back at John who was inspecting the curtains and pretending not to listen. Sherlock heaved a sigh, and promised he’d keep in better touch with his parents before finally locking them out. He heaved a sigh and leaned back against the door.

“Sorry about that,” He murmured.

John nodded. “Clients?” He asked.

“No, no, just my parents.” Sherlock said quickly, walking back into the flat.

John gave him a look. “Your parents?” He asked.

Sherlock nodded. “They’re in town for a couple of days,”

“ _Your_ parents?”

“Mycroft’s taking them to see a performance of Les Mis. He’s trying to get me to go.”

“Those were _your parents_?” 

“Yes?” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him.

John huffed, and looked out the window. “That’s—not what I expected. 

Sherlock waited expectantly.

“It’s just . . . they’re so—ordinary.”

“It’s a cross I have to bear,”

John laughed breathlessly, then walked over and sat down in his old armchair.  He set his gloves down on the small side table, and then looked up at Sherlock. There was a long silence before the detective broke it.

“How are you feeling?” He asked.

“Yeah, not bad.” John nodded. “A bit, _smoked_.”

“Right,” Sherlock nodded.  He noted the humor, but was unable to appreciate it. He had too many things on his mind at the moment.  He was so antsy he couldn’t even sit down.  He stood in front of the table, rocking side to side on his feet with his hands clasped behind his back to keep from fiddling with things.

“Last night . . . who did that?” John asked. His voice was uncharacteristically quiet. “And why did they target me?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock muttered, frustrated that he had no answer for John.

“Is it someone trying to get to you through me?” John suggested.  It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. “Is it something to do with this terrorist thing you talked about?” He tried again.

“I don’t know!” Sherlock ground out, starting to pace in a tight circle before the table. “I can’t see the pattern. It’s too nebulous. Why—“

“Sherlock?” John questioned when Sherlock just suddenly froze.

Sherlock physically stopped breathing when it all came crashing down on him.  He could hear John talking to him, but he didn’t register it.  Instead, his mind scrambled back into the past; to that fateful night by the pool...

_Moriarty finished straightening out his suit, and brushed his hands down the front of it. “Westwood.” He stated.  He then stood up straight again. “Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock?  To you?”_

_Sherlock kept the gun aimed at his head. “Oh, let me guess.  I get killed.” He said, letting boredom fill his voice._

_“Kill you?” Moriarty seemed embarrassed that Sherlock had even mentioned that. “Eh, no. Don’t be obvious. I mean I’m going to kill you anyway someday. I don’t want to rush it though. I’m saving it up for something special._

_Sherlock waited for him to continue.  Moriarty stood there, just smiling at him.  It was the kind of smile that made Sherlock’s stomach flip.  It was a smile of promise; promise that things were about to become much, much worse._

_“No, no, no, no.” Moriarty continued, pacing a little bit. “If you don’t stop prying. I will_ burn _you.  I will burn the_ heart _out of you.” He said, making it sound like a curse._

_Sherlock kept his face void of expression. “I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.” He stated.  As he stood there, he kept a continual mantra going through his head. ‘Don’t look at John, don’t think about John, don’t look at John, no, no, no, not John, not John, DON’T LOOK AT JOHN . . .’_

_“But we both know that’s not quite true,” Moriarty smiled, and glanced back at John._

_Shit._

Sherlock came crashing back to reality, swearing loudly as he did.  He staggered back, grasping at anything to keep him upright.  He knocked over half the papers and books that were on the table, but he didn’t care. He leaned against it heavily, breathing as if he had just finished a marathon.  He could feel himself shaking, and his skin felt cold, as if he’d suddenly been doused in ice water.

John stood in front of him, arms outstretch as if he’d tried to catch Sherlock.  He looked confused, and a little bit terrified at Sherlock’s sudden behavior. He’d dealt with a lot of strange stuff during his time with Sherlock, but nothing compared to this.

“Sherlock?” John asked.  His voice was gentle and soft, timid almost, as if he didn’t want to startle the taller man. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

Sherlock let out a shuddering breath, but forced himself to look up at John.  The Doctor could have sworn that his friend had aged at least five years in the last three seconds.  Slowly, he put his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and led him to the couch.

“Sit down, Sherlock, there we go, easy does it.” John said gently, sitting next to him. “I think you’re in shock, take deep breaths. Can you hear me?”

“Jo-John?” Sherlock breathed.

“I’m here Sherlock,” John said. “Are you alright? What just happened?”

“John I—I’m so sorry, John.” Sherlock whispered. He sounded so broken. He leaned his elbows on his knees, and held his head in his hands.  He took a few deep breaths to calm him.

“Sherlock, you’re scaring me.” John said warily. “What’s going on?”

Sherlock sat up slowly, and turned to look at John. The older man was surprised to see fresh tears in Sherlock’s eyes.

“I know who put you in that bonfire,” Sherlock said slowly. “A-and, you’re not going to like it.”

“Sherlock, I’ve been shot at, actually shot, kidnapped multiple times now, and decked out in enough explosives to take out—What?” John frowned, noticing Sherlock’s change of expression when he mentioned the vest he’d been forced to wear.

“John, do something for me,” Sherlock said.

“Alright?” John nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“Remember . . . remember that night at the pool.” Sherlock began. “After the case you entitled ‘The Great Game’” He didn’t even sneer at John’s attempt at a title. “Remember how I was threatened.”

John’s brows furrowed, trying to recall that night so many years ago.  He remembered being kidnapped and dragged to the pool and being practically smothered in explosives. He remembered grabbing Moriarty in an attempt to let Sherlock run for it.  And after that, when the sniper had zeroed in on Sherlock, John had stepped away.

“Sherlock, I can’t remember,” John admitted. “What did he say to you?”

Sherlock took another breath and pressed his hands together before his lips. “Moriarty threatened to burn the heart out of me,” He said, his voice barely above a whisper.

John sat there in silence for a moment. “A-and what does this have to do with me being drugged and thrown into a bonfire?” He questioned.

Sherlock looked at him like he was out of his mind, and suddenly shot up and started to pace in front of him as he spoke rapidly.

“Why were you, John Hamish Watson, specifically thrown into a bonfire?” He echoed.

“Hey, cut it out with the Hamish crap,” John muttered, interrupting him.

Sherlock pretended not to notice. “ _Think_ , John!” He ordered.  “You know what I was like before I met you.  I know for a fact that Lestrade has filled you in on that.  I had no social skills whatsoever.”

“Yes, I know that Sherlock.” John said gently.

“And then you came along,” Sherlock spun on his heel to point at John. “You came along and set me right. You made me slow down, apologize to people for being rude, think before I let my mouth run like I usually did. You made me _human_.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” John asked, feeling a smidge offended.

Sherlock shook his head and grabbed at his hair frustratedly, trying to think of a way to explain it to John without making it sound awful.  He was so occupied by his thoughts that he didn’t notice John get up and take his hands in his, one by one, and pry them gently out of his hair.  John brought him back to the couch and sat him down 

“Talk to me Sherlock,” John ordered softly. “Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”

“Moriarty wanted to burn the heart out of me,” Sherlock repeated slowly. “He wanted to destroy the one thing that made me human.”

John stared at him for what seemed like hours before he could even manage to open his mouth to say something. His throat was dry, and he had to clear it before he could speak coherently.

“Are you saying that I am your heart?” John asked softly.

Sherlock nodded, clearly distressed.

“And . . . Moriarty is alive?” John asked next.

“Apparently,” Sherlock breathed.

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” John then demanded, anger rising up.

“The less you knew the safer you would be!” Sherlock said desperately, getting up once again to pace. “Up until two minutes ago, I was under the impression that Moriarty was dead.  I saw him blow his own head open right in front of me, John! I saw him bleeding on the rooftop of St. Barts.  If he hadn’t died, I wouldn’t have had to throw myself off the damn building and hide from you for two bloody years!  I would have been able to manipulate him, trick him into not harming you and letting you go.  The _only_ reason I did what I did was because Moriarty left me with no other choice! I would have found any other way to protect you without hurting you as I did if I had the chance to do so.”

John sat there, frozen into silence. This was the first time he was hearing anything about what had happened up on the rooftop. When Sherlock had first returned from the dead, John had been so angry with him that he didn’t even want to stop and listen to what he had to say.  He wanted to say something to Sherlock, to apologize for not listening to him, but Sherlock abruptly turned on his heel and stormed into his bedroom, locking the door shut.  John sprang up and rushed after him, banging on the door.

“Sherlock, let me in!” He ordered.

“John, just go,” Sherlock practically begged. His voice was loud. John figured he was leaning with his back against the door.

John rattled the doorknob. “Sherlock let me in or I swear I will kick this door down.  You know I can and I will.  You’ve seen me do it before.”

“Go away John, please!”  He sounded like he was on the verge of tears.

“I will count to ten-“ John threatened.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Sherlock insisted. “Think about Mary.”

John had just about had enough. “Fuck Mary.” He growled. “You are more important right now, so open this bloody door, Sherlock!”

There was silence, but then John heard the floorboards creak as Sherlock shifted his weight to turn.  He heard the lock click, and then Sherlock opened the door slowly and stared at John.

“We need to talk about this, Sherlock.” John said softly, yet urgently. “My mind doesn’t work the way yours does, so you have to explain it to me.  I want to understand, Sherlock.  I _need_ to understand.”

“B-but, what about...” Sherlock stammered. “You and Mary? I thought...”

John held his hand up, cutting him off. “I need you to explain it to me so that I don’t possibly go and do something incredibly stupid in the near future, alright?”

Sherlock nodded, and then slowly made his way to the living room.  John figured he needed a moment, and so he busied himself in the kitchen making them both a cup of tea. He took his time, giving Sherlock as much time as possible to collect his thoughts before carrying both mugs into the room. He set Sherlock’s before him, and then sat on the couch next to him.

“Please Sherlock,” He whispered. “Help me understand.”

Sherlock sat still for a moment, contemplating what to do.  Would it be better to talk it out with John, or to show him with actions?  He gnawed on his bottom lip, thinking frantically on what would be the wiser path to take.  After fifteen grueling minutes of worrying, he gave up.  Turning where he sat to face John, he grasped the front of the Doctor’s jumper, pulled him close, and kissed him full on the mouth.

John froze when Sherlock kissed him. His mind shut down, and he could barely comprehend what Sherlock was doing.  It wasn’t unpleasant, exactly the opposite, he found himself enjoying it way more than he should.  When Sherlock sat back and released his death grip on his jumper, John cleared his throat, and looked straight at him, not angrily, but pointedly 

“Explain.”

********

When Mary arrived home from her shift, she was surprised that John was not there.  He’d told her that he was just going to make a quick stop at the shops before returning home for the day.  She tried texting him, asking where he was, but she got no response.  She then tried calling, but that proved just as useless.   She sat around the house for a while, but got restless and decided to go out and find John herself. She figured he’d be over at Baker Street, drilling Sherlock about what had happened.

She arrived there, and knocked on the door. Mrs. Hudson opened it, all cheery to see Mary there.

“Ah hello dear,” Mrs. Hudson smiled. “Looking for John?”

“Yes,” Mary smiled. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

Mrs. Hudson nodded. “Been here for a while now. I heard shouting, might not be the best idea to go up there just yet.” She said seriously 

“I’m sure they’re just fooling around,” Mary said lightly.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Hudson said, concern filling her voice. “I know these boys, and I know what it sounds like when they’re seriously shouting.”

Mary lowered her eyes, wondering if perhaps it had been a bad idea to come searching after John.  She took a deep breath, and smiled at Mrs. Hudson before making her way up the stairs.  She walked carefully; making sure that the steps didn’t creak beneath her shoes. Just as she reached up to knock on the door, she heard John pounding on a door within the flat.

“Sherlock, let me in!” John ordered, followed by more pounding.

“John, just go.” Mary froze.  She’d never heard Sherlock sound like that. Sure, she hadn’t known him for very long, but every story she heard about the great Detective was about him being a show-off and flaunting his observational prowess.  She’d never heard of him sounding so broken.

She heard a doorknob being shaken. “Sherlock let me in or I swear I will kick this door down.”  John’s Captain Watson voice had made itself known. “You know I can and I will.  You’ve seen me do it before.”

“Go away John, please!” Sherlock was practically begging.  Mary knew she should probably leave and come back later, or better yet just wait for John at home, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop listening.

“I will count to ten-“ John threatened.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” She heard Sherlock insisting. “Think about Mary.”

Mary heard the floorboards creak as John rapidly shifted his weight.  He always did that when he was either upset or losing his patience.  She bit her lip, agonizingly waiting to her what John would say next. She thought that he’d agree with Sherlock, think about her, and would stand down.  She was wrong.

“Fuck Mary.” John growled. “You are more important right now, so open this bloody door, Sherlock!”

Mary felt her stomach drop.  Her hands fell limp to her side, and she just stared at the door separating her from the two men.  She knew that John cared for Sherlock, but she’d never realized just how much. Everything she had done to hide her past, and it still wasn’t enough to keep him.  At first, she’d thought that she’d have be able to live with Sherlock, to share John with him without them getting in each other’s way or hating each other.  Now she realized that there was no competition.  Sherlock would always come first for John.  He always had. Nothing would change that. Not even a ring on her finger.

She turned away from the door, and walked silently down the steps.  As she reached the bottom, she reached up to touch the locket around her neck.  John had given it to her a few months after they’d been together. It was still empty. She hadn’t remembered to put any pictures inside of it.  Slowly, she unclasped it from around her neck, and held it in her palm.  Making her decision, she knocked on Mrs. Hudson’s door and asked for a piece of paper and an envelope.  Mrs. Hudson got her what she asked for, and she sat at the table and wrote. When she finished her letter, she folded it with care and slid it inside the envelope along with the locket. She wrote John’s name on the outside and sealed it.

“Mary? Is everything alright dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked gently.

Mary didn’t answer, and just held the envelope out. “Would you give this to John, please?” She asked softly.

Mrs. Hudson nodded, and took the envelope. Mary did her best to smile at her, and then she left the flat and returned home.  She packed a bag that would last her a couple of days, and then went to find a hotel.

********

Mrs. Hudson waited downstairs for another hour before venturing up and knocking on the door.  John answered, looking worn and exhausted. She glanced past him to see Sherlock hunched over on the couch, looking like a lost child.

“I’m sorry to interrupt dear,” Mrs. Hudson whispered. “Here,” She held the envelope out.

John’s brows furrowed in confusion, but he took the envelope.  As soon as he had, Mrs. Hudson retreated downstairs.  John closed the door, and then went to stand by the mantle, his back to Sherlock to give himself a little bit of privacy.  He recognized Mary’s handwriting on the outside, and took a deep breath before opening the envelope.  A piece of paper fell out, along with the locket he’d given her.

_John,_

_You don’t have to pretend for me, anymore.  I always knew that you cared about Sherlock, but I had no idea just how much. I realize now that I’ll never be able to measure up to how much he means to you, and that’s alright. I am not angry with you John. I’m sad that I’m not meant to be the person for you, but I’ll be fine._

_I’m staying in a hotel until the weekend so you can have a chance to get your things from the house. I’ll move my things out on Saturday, and you can do what you want with the house.  I’m assuming you’ll move back into Baker Street, so go ahead and sell it. I don’t want it._

_I wish you and Sherlock the all the best in the world._

_Yours, Mary._

John let out a shallow breath, and stepped back until he was able to lower himself into his armchair.  He sagged against it, staring at the locket in his hand. He hadn’t even noticed that Sherlock had gotten up and sat in his own armchair across the way. 

“John?” He asked softly.

John shook his head, and slipped the note back into the envelope.  He then stuck that in his pocket, and held up the locket so Sherlock could see.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered.

“No, don’t apologize.” John said, staring at the locket. “After today, I don’t think I’d have been able to stay with Mary. She’s a lovely girl, and she doesn’t deserve someone who can’t put her first before anything else.”

“What are you going to do?” Sherlock asked.

John stared at the locket for a moment, and then bunched it up and slid it into his pocket.  He stared at his knees for a while, before looking up to smile softly at Sherlock.

“How would you feel about having a flat mate again?” He asked.

Sherlock physically relaxed, and gave John one of his rare, honest smiles. “I’d be honored. 

“Good,” John nodded. “Though, perhaps this time . . .” He trailed off.

“Perhaps this time, what?” Sherlock asked.

“Perhaps this time, we don’t need two bedrooms.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> So there you have it. Since we know now (After watching HLV) that Moriarty is indeed alive (how he's alive, i have no clue), I thought it would be interesting if Magnussen consulted with him on how to get to Sherlock's pressure point and how John and Sherlock would react after finding this out. Originally, I will be honest, i had no intention of this being Johnlock...it just kind of happened


End file.
